The Heart of A Fighter

Just a character study of a professional fighter and the reasons why he fights so hard for himself in the ring.

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1. The Fight Begins

 

“And the second semifinal match starts…now!!” The referee yelled, standing in the middle of the ring situated right smack in the center of the stadium.

The stands around the stadium were filled to the brim with hundreds, thousands of eager spectators anticipating a satisfying match. The crowd in the vast stadium roared with enthusiasm as a bell sounded shrilly throughout the expanse of the stadium, kicking off the match.

I gave my opponent a quick once-over, standing in the opposite side of the ring from me. He was a big and bulky African with immense, bulging muscles that looked like they were just waiting to rip out of his skin. He was a rather tall man too, easily two feet taller than me. If there was an Incredible Hulk in real life, this man standing opposite me was it.

I suppose that was to be expected of the competition at this level of the tournament.

Compared to the giant standing opposite me, I was just an average man’s height and build, which was a wonder why I could make it all the way to this level of the boxing tournament.

The ring of a bell reverberated throughout the sports complex, interrupting my thoughts and kicking off the first round. In that split-second, my opponent reacted, springing lightly off his feet and lunging at me, left arm outstretched in a punch.

I pushed my thoughts out of my mind, and parried his obvious blow. My opponent didn’t miss a beat, and spun around, swinging his other arm around towards my head. I blocked it with my elbow, and took my own swing at him.

Caught up in his offense, he couldn’t stop my fist in time and it connected with his chin. He staggered a step backwards.

This could be easy, I thought, but to my surprise, my opponent recovered with a speed that belied his size and retaliated with a rapid blow that landed squarely on the side of my head.

It was like a hundred cannons went off at once inside my head. I lost my balance and fell to my knees. Throughout this entire tournament, I had never experienced a blow that hurt as much as his.

The referee blew his whistle and stepped between me and my opponent. Like a true sportsman, he backed off and waited patiently while I tried to re-orient myself.

But other than disorienting me, my opponent’s blow also served to dredge up an unpleasant memory long buried at the back of my mind…

 

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